how does this duty send me relief
WHO: Miria (mentions of Clarice, Cynthia, Deneve, Flora, Galatea, Helen, Kurt, Sakura, Setsuna, Sulu, Tabitha, Undine, & Yuma)
LOCATION: Hallway
WEEK: 55
TIME: Thursday morning
WHAT: Narrative
RATING: R
Miria wakes slowly.
The first thing she notices is the utter silence, the second, the smell of blood. Her senses are dulled, her head pounds, but the metallic scent fills the air. She knows before she opens her eyes that what has taken place is nothing short of a massacre.
It takes her nearly twenty minutes to stand. Her strength is spent, long gashes along her side seeping with each breath she takes. One arm dangles useless at her side, the other ends at the elbow. Too late now to reattach, even if she could find the rest. She can hardly feel the yoki running through her veins, it pulses weakly with every heartbeat, barely there at all. Her wand lies at her feet, splintered. She stumbles forward, one step, then two.
The first body she finds is Undine's. She is small, delicate as a nymph, cut in half like a Russian doll, a sword in each hand. Behind her are Yuma and Cynthia. Yuma's hands are on Cynthia's shoulders, the rest of her lies several feet away, a smoldering heap. Cynthia is a bloody wreck. Miria sees their final moments as clearly as if she had watched them die.
Cynthia abruptly falls forward, a curse from the wall of wizards ahead of them blasts away everything below her waist. Yuma panics, grabs Cynthia by the arms, attempts to synchronize their yoki, to regenerate the ruined lumps of flesh, to make her whole again. Undine charges forward, slashing wildly.
She never sees it coming. All Yuma can do is scream as her hands are severed, as a spell burns her alive. And then, silence.
Miria turns away, bile rising in her throat. She blinks rapidly. She must not cry. They were warriors. They knew what they were getting into, knew their chances of survival were slim. It's not her fault. It's not her fault. She grits her teeth and moves forward.
The ground beneath her is cracked and scarred, as if by an earthquake. Miria stands at the edge of a crater and looks down. In its center are the bodies of Sakura Haruno, Kurt Wagner, Setsuna Sakurazaki, and Hikaru Sulu. Not warriors, then, not like her and the other girls the ministry had seen fit to turn into monsters. No, these were humans. Not... just humans.
These were her friends.
Miria closes her eyes.
Sakura stands her ground. A wave of Ministry wizards advances, and she smiles before punching the earth below her. A shockwave spreads outward from her fist, and Sulu sweeps by on his broomstick, hurling spells at the downed wizards. Kurt Apparates in and out of the mayhem, casting spells to blind and confuse. Setsuna dances among them, her sword glinting in the moonlight, leaving a trail of dead men behind. The four of them come together in the center of the crater, and for a moment, it looks as if they are victorious.
One by one, they crumple where they stand.
Miria breathes, the stabbing pain in her lungs almost welcome. A sharp reminder that she must yet continue. There are others unaccounted for. Others that may yet live. She has to believe that her revenge has not cost her everything. Already it has cost her more than she can bear.
She almost misses Clarice's hand thrust up from a pile of rubble like some morbid flagpole. She maneuvers the stones away gently with her feet, uncovering the bodies of her comrades. Clarice, who should never have been there to begin with. Helen and Deneve, who could no more have stayed behind than their captain.
A sob catches in her throat. Her breath hitches, once. Miria controls herself. She does not deserve to grieve.
Helen grins, extending and bending her arms one way and then another, Claymore darting wickedly to keep the Ministry's wizards at bay. A parasitic curse hits Deneve's shoulder, and she doesn't even blink before she rips her whole arm clean off, hurling it, and the sword she held, with deadly aim at one of their enemies. Clarice breathes heavily, five men dead by her sword, with more coming. The warriors come together, back to back in a defensive formation.
Everything around them explodes. They are buried before they know what's happened.
It is getting harder and harder to move. Black spots flicker at the edges of her vision. Her muscles spasm, veins bursting under the skin, the first signs that she is reaching her limit. But Miria cannot stop. Not yet. There must be survivors. She can't have led them all here just to die.
But she has. Flora's body lies before her, slashed near in half down the middle. Tabitha lies beside her, eyes closed, blood spattered around her like a halo. She looks peaceful, almost, but for the grim slash across her throat that weeps even now.
A flash of blinding heat streaks across her temples. Her pulse beats heavy like a drum. She does not have much time.
The Ministry's monsters charge, and Flora swings her sword in a wide arc, the Windcutter slicing through flesh and bone as easily as air. Tabitha works magic, turning their bodies against themselves, picking them off one after the other.
They are blindsided by a barrage of slashing spells. They dodge most, her warriors, but most is never enough in battle. They fall and do not move again.
Miria falls to her knees. There is no more time. Her limbs move of their own will, muscles bulging, bones creaking, flesh renewed and regrown. Her features grow sharp, her mouth splits along the edges, teeth lengthening to rend and tear. Her eyes flash gold, pupils long and slitted like a cat's.
There is no more time.
A hand comes to rest on her shoulder, and she spins with all feral, feline grace, newly made body perfectly attuned to her in ways she'd never dreamed possible. She snarls. She is ravenous.
Miria slashes Galatea to ribbons without a second thought.
LOCATION: Hallway
WEEK: 55
TIME: Thursday morning
WHAT: Narrative
RATING: R
Miria wakes slowly.
The first thing she notices is the utter silence, the second, the smell of blood. Her senses are dulled, her head pounds, but the metallic scent fills the air. She knows before she opens her eyes that what has taken place is nothing short of a massacre.
It takes her nearly twenty minutes to stand. Her strength is spent, long gashes along her side seeping with each breath she takes. One arm dangles useless at her side, the other ends at the elbow. Too late now to reattach, even if she could find the rest. She can hardly feel the yoki running through her veins, it pulses weakly with every heartbeat, barely there at all. Her wand lies at her feet, splintered. She stumbles forward, one step, then two.
The first body she finds is Undine's. She is small, delicate as a nymph, cut in half like a Russian doll, a sword in each hand. Behind her are Yuma and Cynthia. Yuma's hands are on Cynthia's shoulders, the rest of her lies several feet away, a smoldering heap. Cynthia is a bloody wreck. Miria sees their final moments as clearly as if she had watched them die.
Cynthia abruptly falls forward, a curse from the wall of wizards ahead of them blasts away everything below her waist. Yuma panics, grabs Cynthia by the arms, attempts to synchronize their yoki, to regenerate the ruined lumps of flesh, to make her whole again. Undine charges forward, slashing wildly.
She never sees it coming. All Yuma can do is scream as her hands are severed, as a spell burns her alive. And then, silence.
Miria turns away, bile rising in her throat. She blinks rapidly. She must not cry. They were warriors. They knew what they were getting into, knew their chances of survival were slim. It's not her fault. It's not her fault. She grits her teeth and moves forward.
The ground beneath her is cracked and scarred, as if by an earthquake. Miria stands at the edge of a crater and looks down. In its center are the bodies of Sakura Haruno, Kurt Wagner, Setsuna Sakurazaki, and Hikaru Sulu. Not warriors, then, not like her and the other girls the ministry had seen fit to turn into monsters. No, these were humans. Not... just humans.
These were her friends.
Miria closes her eyes.
Sakura stands her ground. A wave of Ministry wizards advances, and she smiles before punching the earth below her. A shockwave spreads outward from her fist, and Sulu sweeps by on his broomstick, hurling spells at the downed wizards. Kurt Apparates in and out of the mayhem, casting spells to blind and confuse. Setsuna dances among them, her sword glinting in the moonlight, leaving a trail of dead men behind. The four of them come together in the center of the crater, and for a moment, it looks as if they are victorious.
One by one, they crumple where they stand.
Miria breathes, the stabbing pain in her lungs almost welcome. A sharp reminder that she must yet continue. There are others unaccounted for. Others that may yet live. She has to believe that her revenge has not cost her everything. Already it has cost her more than she can bear.
She almost misses Clarice's hand thrust up from a pile of rubble like some morbid flagpole. She maneuvers the stones away gently with her feet, uncovering the bodies of her comrades. Clarice, who should never have been there to begin with. Helen and Deneve, who could no more have stayed behind than their captain.
A sob catches in her throat. Her breath hitches, once. Miria controls herself. She does not deserve to grieve.
Helen grins, extending and bending her arms one way and then another, Claymore darting wickedly to keep the Ministry's wizards at bay. A parasitic curse hits Deneve's shoulder, and she doesn't even blink before she rips her whole arm clean off, hurling it, and the sword she held, with deadly aim at one of their enemies. Clarice breathes heavily, five men dead by her sword, with more coming. The warriors come together, back to back in a defensive formation.
Everything around them explodes. They are buried before they know what's happened.
It is getting harder and harder to move. Black spots flicker at the edges of her vision. Her muscles spasm, veins bursting under the skin, the first signs that she is reaching her limit. But Miria cannot stop. Not yet. There must be survivors. She can't have led them all here just to die.
But she has. Flora's body lies before her, slashed near in half down the middle. Tabitha lies beside her, eyes closed, blood spattered around her like a halo. She looks peaceful, almost, but for the grim slash across her throat that weeps even now.
A flash of blinding heat streaks across her temples. Her pulse beats heavy like a drum. She does not have much time.
The Ministry's monsters charge, and Flora swings her sword in a wide arc, the Windcutter slicing through flesh and bone as easily as air. Tabitha works magic, turning their bodies against themselves, picking them off one after the other.
They are blindsided by a barrage of slashing spells. They dodge most, her warriors, but most is never enough in battle. They fall and do not move again.
Miria falls to her knees. There is no more time. Her limbs move of their own will, muscles bulging, bones creaking, flesh renewed and regrown. Her features grow sharp, her mouth splits along the edges, teeth lengthening to rend and tear. Her eyes flash gold, pupils long and slitted like a cat's.
There is no more time.
A hand comes to rest on her shoulder, and she spins with all feral, feline grace, newly made body perfectly attuned to her in ways she'd never dreamed possible. She snarls. She is ravenous.
Miria slashes Galatea to ribbons without a second thought.